


Ship of Theseus

by Eigenvalium



Category: Half Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: Cognition Problems, Collective Memory Loss, Derealization, Gen, Implied poisoning, Loss of Identity, Unexplained Symptoms Disease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eigenvalium/pseuds/Eigenvalium
Summary: Should a man remain the same if he were entirely replaced, piece by piece?
Relationships: Barney Calhoun & Gordon Freeman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at end of chapter notes

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you look a bit shit."

However he looks, it pales in comparison to how he feels. 

It started with a general malaise—the type of headiness that precedes a common cold or flu. Barney always had an unfortunate knack for falling ill every September. As a child, he contracted Strep throat so frequently, the pediatrician recommended a tonsillectomy. But this malaise never gave way to a sore throat or fever. Instead, it became a persistent migraine accompanied by regular fits of nausea. Some days, he would skip breakfast and lunch, afraid to risk vomiting on the clock.

"Thanks for the sympathetic words, doc," Barney says, tense, his smile appearing more like a pained grimace. Despite Gordon's harshness, Barney knows the man is beside himself with worry. As is his nature—the good doctor is six feet of carbon steel wire, tensioned to its breaking point.

"I mean it, man, you've lost weight. In, like, a bad way," Gordon says, adopting a more serious tone. He pushes his lunch tray towards Barney—a modest Black Mesa lunch of meat slop accompanied by bottled water and a small bowl of iceberg lettuce. "Even if it comes back up later, you gotta try and eat _something_. Get some fuckin' _nutrients_."

Since the initial onset of these strange symptoms, Barney's dropped 13 pounds. An unintentional weight loss—and a dangerously rapid one, too—which toed the line of clinical malnutrition. His face, once youthfully round, grew sickly and gaunt. Eyes sunken and hands trembling from low blood sugar.

On a visit to his primary care doctor, he was ordered a full panel of bloodwork. A test which bore no fruit. Regular thyroid function and a healthy white blood cell count; no enzyme markers and hormone levels well within his normal limits. The only red flag was his hemoglobin—anemia, brought upon by his various vitamin deficiencies, for which the doctor prescribed iron supplements.

Having pushed the limits of what a primary physician can diagnose, Barney's doctor recommended a few specialists—local gastroenterologists and neurologists. Names and numbers which Barney wrote down, then immediately hid beneath the piles of books and unopened bills that littered his dormitory desk. Out of sight, out of mind. After all, referring to a specialist meant admitting to the severity of the problem. A superstitious line of thinking—diseases progress regardless of whether the host acknowledges it or not. But Barney can't help but cling to the hope that he will wake up, miraculously healthy again.

Frowning, he pushes the cafeteria tray back to Gordon. "I've already used most of my PTO, and I'm not interested in losin' pay just 'cause I ate a goddamn salad."

Blind hope aside, there was something else keeping Barney from visiting a specialist. Last year, fortune blessed him with the opportunity to undergo several long-awaited medical procedures. However, this left his health savings account in dire straits. And at present—still a few thousand dollars short of his maximum out-of-pocket—every specialist referral represented another theoretical expense he couldn't afford.

Not that he would ever voice his financial anxieties to Gordon—the man would jump at the opportunity to help pay for this or that health bill. No, for both of their sakes, Barney keeps quiet on that front.

Lunch falls into an easy rhythm as Gordon fills the air with mindless chatter. Recent developments with the Anti-Mass Spectrometer, and preparations for an experiment in May. Rumors about Dr. Kleiner's involvement in a secret human genetics program, which Gordon dismisses offhand as 'complete fantasy'. It's noise—a pleasant background hum, which Barney listens to with a meditative focus.

But as with all things, lunch eventually ends. The pair dawdling as they wait for the initial exodus of scientists and guards to clear. Back to the grind.

Dizziness plagues Barney as they walk to Sector C. An initial light-headedness blooming into a strong vertigo. Were Gordon paying attention, he might've noticed the way Barney swayed, almost drunkenly. At first, Barney tries to power through, chalking it up to a hypoglycemic reaction. But suddenly, he loses his balance. Trips over himself, dropping to his knees with bruising force, temporarily stunned.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Gordon cries out. And he kneels, too, rubbing reassuring circles over Barney's back—a performative display, Barney can't feel much through his bulletproof vest. "You're, like, all sorts of fucked up. Man, you _have_ to take off work, this is—"

The chiding takes on a muffled quality. Unintelligible, the way words sound when spoken underwater. Barney's vision swims. Gordon stops his gentle back-rubbing, arms hooking around Barney's chest. Supporting him as he slumps over, a buffer between his skull and the hard lacquered concrete floor. A strong presence, catching him as he unexpectedly passes out.

————————————————————

Barney wakes up in a supine position, head cushioned by a single, stiff pillow. Even with his eyes closed, the ambient room light nags at his headache. At least someone had the courtesy to remove his helmet, vest and boots. Memories trickle back slowly, each bringing with it another wave of red, hot embarrassment. Embarrassed by his own weakness, embarrassed by the worry he saddled Gordon with.

Opening his eyes, he recognizes the eggshell stucco ceiling of Black Mesa's health center. His past visits here were brief and trivial—scavenging for band-aids and free Ibuprofen. A hanging curtain on a track is drawn around him, granting him a semblance of privacy. To his left is a cheap side table and digital clock. Lunch ended almost 40 minutes ago. 

Sparing a moment to recompose himself, Barney stands up, pleased to find that his dizziness has subsided. He pokes his head through the curtain like a self-conscious child, afraid to bother whatever nurse was attending to him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Calhoun," a deep voice says in greeting. In lieu of a nurse in white scrubs, Barney finds a business man—an older fellow with piercing blue eyes and a three-piece suit. Tall and lean, he reclines in his ergonomic desk chair with casual ease. "How are you feeling?"

"Never better."

"I understand from Mr. Freeman that you have been feeling… under the weather. Headaches, vomiting. And now, this fainting spell," the man says with a gentle wave of his hand, voice laden with impersonal concern. Barney can't fault Gordon for being honest, but he silently curses the man nonetheless. "These symptoms are… troubling, to say the least."

"'M sorry, sir, but are you a doctor?" Far be it from Barney to distrust a stranger on appearance alone, but something about this man makes his hair stand on end. "Because, no offense, but I don't need a school nurse tellin' me what I already know."

"Rest assured," the man says, dripping with an understated arrogance, "I am _more _than qualified to help treat your condition, Mr. Calhoun."__

__"And what, pray tell, do you _know_ about my condition?"_ _

__The man props his elbows on the armrests and laces his fingers together across his stomach. He rocks once, the flexible seatback creaking at the motion. "You and Mr. Freeman have a nasty tendency of sneaking around the ventilation system," he pauses, enjoying the way Barney squirms with guilt, "Now relax, this isn't a disciplinary meeting. I am simply making a statement of fact. Running around restricted areas without some type of protective gear is a recipe for… exposure. Chemical runoff and alien biohazards and such."_ _

__Surely, national safety standards would require ventilation systems carrying airborne pathogens to be kept separate from the return ducts carrying breathable air. And yet, Black Mesa is notoriously lax when it comes to such standards. Explosive material left in unmarked barrels. Rickety bridges leading over pools of radioactive waste. "You think I oughta start takin' iodine?" Barney asks, his facetious tone masking his genuine anxiety._ _

__"Radiation poisoning is not off the table, but your symptoms are quite generic. Without any further information, I would hate to start drawing any conclusion or prescribing any solutions. That said," the man leans forward, voice affecting the tone of a salesman, "If you so choose, Black Mesa is willing to place you under… an internal observation. After all, if your sickness is… otherworldly of nature, who better to treat you?"_ _

__" _If_ I so choose," Barney says, bitingly, his mind reeling with images of surgical equipment and mysterious IV drips. The cold, inquisitive eyes of his colleagues watching as he's picked apart like a lab rat. "What would this 'internal observation' be, exactly?"_ _

__"I understand your hesitation, but I assure you, it would be nothing more than a typical physical examination! One hour, twice a week. The worst of it will be providing us small blood and saliva samples."_ _

__This does little to assuage Barney's fears. Something about the man—his tempered tone, his piercing gaze—sits uneasy with him. As if sensing Barney's apprehension, the man continues arguing his case. "Additionally, you will be granted paid medical leave, equivalent to two-thirds your active wage. And on top of that, you will receive an added payout—a preemptive worker's comp, so to speak. And should you require more… invasive treatment, we will refer you to an outside specialist post-haste, at the company's expense."_ _

__This, more than anything, weighs on Barney's chest. If Black Mesa is so eager to pay him off, they must be underselling how much they know about his current condition. So, in spite of his better instincts, he agrees to the man's terms. "Okay," he says, unable to control the shakiness in his voice, "Alright, I'll do this—this 'internal observation' thing of yours."_ _

__Something closely approximating a smile worms its way across the man's face. "Glad to hear that."_ _

__Then, quite suddenly, the man swivels in his chair, reaching down to open his desk drawer. Barney half-expects him to pull out a blood pressure cuff, but instead, the man produces a simple granola bar. "Your first appointment will be tomorrow at 5pm. But in the meantime," he says, proffering the snack to Barney, "Please be sure to eat, Mr. Calhoun, even if you aren't feeling well. For your convenience, we will arrange for someone to deliver meals to your quarters. Nutrition is important for a strong, healthy body. "_ _

__More than anything , this grates on Barney's nerves. To be lectured by a stranger incites a stubborn rage within him. As sensible as the advice might be, there's a hint of condescension—bordering paternalism. Muttering a half-hearted 'thanks', he grabs the granola bar, gripping it with undue force. And as he walks out of the health center, ruminating on the possibility of starving himself out of spite, he realizes that he never asked for the mysterious man's name._ _

__————————————————————_ _

__Without the gnawing anxiety over vomiting at work, Barney starts eating more frequently. Small meals—stale breads and lukewarm stews, delivered to his dorm twice a day. Enough to stave off dizziness and fatigue. The inhouse food always lacked flavor—the cafeteria cooks repulsed by the mere suggestion of black pepper. But these meals taste uniquely bland. Maybe even bitter—but then, the aftertaste of bile lingering in Barney's mouth might skew his observations._ _

__The days melt into waves of grey and blue. Even his biweekly medical exams—administered by the mysterious man himself—feel tedious, quickly fading into the background noise of daily life. Simple vital checks, throat and nasal swabs, and a quick blood sample taken venously. Mercifully noninvasive, just as promised._ _

__The waves of monotony are fierce and stormy, threatening to batter Barney's idle mind against the rocks. But regular visits by one Gordon Freeman moors him to the pier of reality. The good doctor makes it his duty to eat lunch in Barney's quarters every damn workday—although, employees aren't _technically_ allowed to take breaks in the dorms. "You're not s'posed to be here," Barney always chides._ _

__To which Gordon always responds, "Oh, yeah? Let's see you fuckin' stop me."_ _

__And so, Barney lets Gordon fill the air with mindless chatter. Even as his mind fights the urge to wander._ _

__"I don't want to discourage his interests, y'know? Don't wanna be some—some asshole killjoy dad," Gordon says one day, words muffled by a mouthful of unchewed cheesesteak. Joshua is a regular topic of discussion, especially since the boy started preschool. "But other kids wanna watch Spongebob, and play with hot wheels, and shit. Not recreate scenes from spaghetti westerns!"_ _

__"Mmhmm," Barney hums, losing ground in his battle against inattentiveness. Just another symptom for his ever-growing laundry list._ _

__"And fucking _Christ_ , the worst part is, I think it's my fault. Having him live with his grandma most of the time... Of course he's gonna have weird, old people interests!" With an overdramatic flourish, Gordon throws up his hands, "I gave my only son cowboy poisoning!"_ _

__There's a hint of finality in Gordon's tone, followed by an extended pause. A cue for Barney to respond, and a cue he misses entirely. It's only when Gordon reaches out—bare hand scorching hot against Barney's forehead—that he snaps to attention. "You're freezing, man," Gordon says, expression torn between fear and frustration, "How the fuck are you this cold?"_ _

__"Wh—Huh?"_ _

__Gordon retracts his hand, frown deepening. "Are you able to focus? Like, at all?"_ _

__On a better day, Barney might've gone on the defensive—put on a show of good health. But today, such energy eludes him. So instead, he sighs, carding his hand through his hair—a stringy knotted mess, in dire need of a comb. "Guess a guy can't zone out for a second, huh?" he says, ashamed by how feeble he sounds._ _

__"This is way beyond just 'zoning out'!" Gordon yells, then screws his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose. For all his attempts to position himself as a man of strength and reason, he wears his anxiety on his sleeve. "Look. I know you've gone to doctors, and now you're being treated by this Black Mesa suit. Specialist. Whatever. But at what point do you just check yourself into the hospital?"_ _

__Barney's entire life has been a series of equations—mental calculus, deriving the exact amount of medical care he can afford without going broke. Unexpected emergencies don't factor into the equation. So when faced with a mathematical problem he can't solve, he falls back onto his old high school tricks—circle a random answer and pray._ _

__None of his symptoms are life-threatening. No disrupted breathing or arrhythmic heartbeat. No fever, no abnormal bleeding. So Barney evades Gordon's question with a shrug and a smile, content to kick the can further down the road._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to vomiting, malnutrition, passing out, undiagnosed illness
> 
> If this fic had a book cover, it would be G-Man as the Blink-182 nurse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end of chapter notes

The Black Mesa campus is a disorienting maze—featureless buildings, underground passages, inconsistent floor layouts. Despite residing in the same building, the route from the dormitories to the health center is needlessly complicated. Barney's failing memory is no help in the matter. With each passing day, he finds it harder and harder to navigate the halls of a building he's lived in for half a decade.

On worse days—when the light-sensitivity threatens to split his skull in twain—he closes his eyes. Presses his right hand against the wall and follows it like a lost child.

The mysterious man makes no comment about Barney's emergent tendency towards tardiness. Wordlessly, he gestures for Barney to take a seat, medical tools at the ready. Stethoscopes, thermometers, halogen penlights—poking and prodding at Barney's body in hopes of divining a diagnosis from various vital signs. After weeks of endless check-ups with nothing to show for it, Barney is resigned to his miserable reality. Barely aware as the man wraps a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.

"Do you have any family, Mr. Calhoun?"

Such a personal question. A stark contrast to the dry medical inquiries Barney is accustomed to. With his left hand, the man squeezes the blood pressure pump in rapid succession, tightening the cuff around Barney's bicep. Then he presses the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope into the crook of Barney's elbow, listening to the pulse.

"What?" Barney asks—less a question, and more an expression of affronted disbelief.

" _Family_ , Mr. Calhoun. Are you close with your parents? Do you have any siblings in the area? Or perhaps a partner?" The man pauses for a thoughtful moment, as if weighing his next words. "Not to assume anything about your relationship with Mr. Freeman, but you two seem exceptionally… close."

At every turn, Barney has been transparent about his personal health. Every medication he's been prescribed, every surgery he's had. Describing in pain-staking detail, the physical and cognitive symptoms he's experienced. He's not ashamed to answer such intimate questions about his body and overall health—such information only makes a doctor's job easier. But this presumptuous line of questioning pisses Barney off, royally. "What's this got to do with anything?" he asks.

The blood pressure cuff hisses as it decompresses, and the man scribbles on his clipboard. From Barney's vantage point, he can barely make out the numbers: 90 over 75. His systolic pressure has been dropping at a steady rate. At first, he saw this as a good sign—his family was predisposed towards hypertension, after all. But surely, the heart must exert _some_ force to function. Surely, there's a point where "low" is "too low". And yet, the man makes no mention of Barney's blood pressure readings.

"Strange as it may sound, I've always fashioned myself as a 'people watcher'," the man says with an odd smile. He clicks his pen and sets it on the counter. "And in way, I've been watching you for almost a month, now. And yet, I know very little about you. So forgive me for being forward. I am simply… interested in the life of the man I've been treating."

"Don't get your hopes up, doc. I don't got much of a life to talk about, 'side from work." Such is the fate of a Black Mesa employee. Long shifts demand most of one's physical and mental energy. And as for people from his past—family and old school friends—Barney regards them with a degree of bitterness. Unable to control his mental filter—a symptom of his fatigue and general disorientation—Barney laughs, saying, "Truth be told, I doubt my parents would recognize me, anymore." 

He regrets the words as he says them. Regrets whatever force compelled him to speak so candidly. Personal details fed to satiate some stranger's misplaced curiosity. He stares at his knees, tugging at the fabric of his slacks. He needs to trim his nails. "That's a shame," the man says, expression softening with unexpected sincerity, "Every person deserves parental love without conditions."

"Yeah, well...," Barney says weakly, unsure how to respond to such lukewarm platitudes. He closes his eyes, retreating into darkness like a child hiding beneath the covers. Hoping to escape this conversation through sheer force of will.

With an isopropyl wipe, the man disinfects Barney's inner elbow. The contact site is uncomfortably chilly as the solvent evaporates off his skin. "My own son, Tommy, is joining Black Mesa later this month. A brilliant man, a nuclear engineer. And if I'm not mistaken, he will be working in Sector C with Mr. Freeman, maintaining the Anti-Mass Spectrometer." The man pauses, pressing the fine-tipped syringe into Barney's skin. A steady stream of blood being siphoned from his cubital vein. "He is a grown man. Fully independent. And yet, I find myself worrying. Will he find his work satisfying? Will he fit in with his coworkers? Will he be… lonely?"

Such raw, open honesty—devoid of any ulterior motive—shocks Barney. Instills a degree of trust in him. The smallest spark of human connection, trickling through his veins and into his heart. The man removes the syringe from Barney's arm, bandaging the small puncture with cotton and gauze. "But such is the job of a decent father—to worry. To try and do right by your son, even into adulthood."

"Tell you what, doc," Barney smiles, slipping off the examination table, "If you patch me up, you won't need to worry. I'll make damn sure Tommy fits right in."

————————————————————

Gordon Freeman stops visiting. 

There's no phone call, no letter, no ceremonial cutting of the tether which once grounded Barney to reality. In the days preceding his disappearance, Gordon seemed perfectly normal, insofar as a neurotic physicist can be "normal". Energetic, in good spirits, no complaints of sluggishness or headache. And yet, the possibility that his condition is communicable gnaws at Barney's conscience. He won't forgive himself if Gordon contracted this mysterious disease—or, god forbid, passed it on to little Joshua.

After five days of radio silence—sick with concern and increasingly stir crazy—Barney picks up his landline. The digits on the number pad swirl in his vision. Indecipherable symbols, lines and curls devoid of meaning. But what does it matter—this extreme onset dyscalculia? The numbers may be unreadable, but their positions remain a constant. Eyes screwed shut, Barney relies on muscle memory, dialing Gordon's flip phone.

The line rings once, twice. Then, strangely, a woman answers. Without hesitation, she rolls into a well-practiced introduction, offering her name and the name of her employer—a Denver-based data center. "How can I help you today?" she asks, and Barney's mind recoils. It's one thing to misdial—to transpose a digit or two. It's another thing entirely to forget his area code.

"You can't," Barney says and hangs up the phone, failing to properly hook the receiver on the base.

Simple phone calls have become insurmountable tasks. The tumultuous waves of static continue to batter his mind, eroding even the most minor of details. It's too much to address—too terrifying. So Barney stumbles towards the bathroom, in hopes that a hot shower will relax his mind and stimulate recall.

He turns the handle, ice cold water raining down from the shower head. Despite its state of the art lab equipment and visionary research team, Black Mesa puts little effort into employee amenities. Ancient heating and plumbing infrastructure struggles to keep up with residents' demands. So Barney waits for the shower to warm up, inspecting himself in the mirror.

His ghoulish reflection no longer startles him with its sunken gaze, its sickly complexion, its general off-putting aura. He traces his fingers from his cheekbone, down along his jawline. It's been a week since he last shaved—facial hair, once a mark of pride, has become another sign of his failing health. Stubble grown beyond "charmingly scraggly", and into the realm of "unkempt".

He runs the sink and lathers his face with shaving cream. With an abundance of caution, Barney drags the razor across his skin, pausing intermittently to rinse off the foam and hair. But his shaking hands get the better of him. He doesn't notice when he inevitably nicks himself—not immediately. Pain receptors dulled, nerve conduction reduced. As far as shaving mishaps go, it's quite severe. The skin on his left cheek is split open, blood pouring down and dripping from his chin.

It splatters in the ceramic sink basin—a bright and violent red, diffusing through the shallow water.

What is this trembling, dull-eyed husk—this doll, this meat-and-bone mannequin? Barney tugs at the strings—puppeteers the body. He lifts its hand and smears the blood across its face. Is this Barney Calhoun? Is this how people view him? He leans in close, tip of his nose brushing against the cold mirror, taking inventory of every detail. Every pore, every hair, every discoloration.

Such a repulsive thing, the human body—how he resents it! Resents how it imprisons him, how it subjects him to its flaws and critical failures.

Barney presses his fingers against the mirror, fixated by the impermeable space between him and the reflection. 

A soft rapping startles Barney out of his reverie. In a disordered rush, he drops the razor and abandons the running shower—half-shaven and skin sticky with dried shaving cream. His heart sinks when he opens the door. Some desperate part of him hoped to find Gordon on the other side. Instead, he finds a disposable tray on the floor, carrying a handful of styrofoam clamshells filled with cafeteria food. 

His daily dinner delivery—five o’clock on the dot. Barney spent over two hours attempting to shave.

Had Barney been in the right frame of mind as he rushed out the bathroom door, he might have found it odd. The conspicuous lack of blood in the sink basin. His face, now smooth and injury-free. But for now, Barney picks up the tray, resigned to eating another flavorless dinner alone, such little mysteries unnoticed by him.

————————————————————

"You had me worried, Mr. Calhoun. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever show up."

The concrete wall at Barney's back supports the majority of his weight. Even as life disassembles itself—as boundaries of time break down completely—he can still rely on the tangible. A firm wall, a steady floor.

He walked here. Surely, he walked here, although he does not remember doing so. Like a creature of habit, unconsciously following its routine. There's an analog clock on the adjacent wall, but the arms seem to wiggle around like inflatable tube men. And the lights are bright—they're always bright. Searing his retinas, piercing his brain, consuming his thoughts.

Something snaps—the sound of a retractable pen. Fingernails tapping against a wooden desktop. A tongue clicking, a clock ticking. Carbon dioxide bubbles popping like bubble wrap in his synovial fluid. "Whuh?" Barney asks, and it's the first word he's spoken in days.

“I must apologize. You’ve suffered a great deal these past few weeks.” The man speaks, drawing Barney in with his hypnotic gaze. “The frustration and fear you’ve felt—I assure you, it was not in vain. There were some… external factors that needed to be dealt with, you understand. Minor administrative things keeping us from moving forward. But it's over, now. We can finally start administering your… treatment."

Like a magic trick, like a slight of hand, the man produces a single pill. Large as a fish oil supplement and startlingly blue—the same blue as the man's eyes. Barney is certainly mistaken, but the pill seems to emit a soft glow. Surely some overhead light, refracted through the gelatin capsule.

"Is it, uh…. It safe?" By some miracle, Barney manages to form a proper sentence, complete with subject, object and copular verb. Although the question is strictly a formality—no answer will change his decision. A drowning man doesn't bite the hand that saves him.  
"This treatment is experimental, to put it lightly. This… sickness, as it were. It appears unique to you. And we can't perform a human clinical trial just to study a drug's side effects, you understand. It would be… unethical," the man says, solemnly, "That being said, preliminary tests on canines have yielded very promising results, with no short term effects."

Barney rolls the capsule between his thumb and forefinger. He is still leaning against the wall; the man is still reclining in his office chair. At some point, the pill changed hands, but Barney cannot remember when. "Think of it as an iodine tablet," the man urges, gently. And for the first time in over month, Barney feels a glimmer of hope breaking through choppy waters of distrust and unease. A promise of normalcy and a return to good health. So he pops the pill in his mouth, dry-swallowing in a moment of over-eagerness.

A warm hand clasps his shoulder. A towering figure, a Cheshire smile, and stunning blue eyes.

It takes a few minutes for the gel cap to dissolve in his stomach. At which point, the effects are immediate. It starts with a comfortable heat in his chest, akin to an alcohol-induced buzz. Then, there's a spark. An ignition. The heat transforming into a raging wildfire that courses through his entire body. Every muscle spasms in response, and he crumples to the floor. Mouth open, screaming—a raw, melodic scream.

Barney looks around frantically—from the clock to the examination table to the mysterious man looming over him. The world pulsates organically, objects threatening to burst from their physical boundaries. Even time breaks down—expanding and contracting in lockstep with his own belabored breathing.

He tries to move into a sitting position, hands pressed against the floor as leverage. But the sight of his bare hands and forearms distract him. Enraptured at the sight of his pale, clammy skin as it melts away like ice, revealing the muscular layer underneath. And so too, does the muscle give way, leaving nothing behind but clean-picked bone. Then, just as quickly, his body reforms. A hypnotic cycle of decay and rejuvenation.

Thoughts, once awash with fear and rage and betrayal, dissolve into an eerie calmness. A calm so intense that it manifests in his exposed chest cavity—becomes tangible, spilling from his mouth and onto the floor. A sea of ocean blue, undisturbed by tumultuous waves. How beautiful, he thinks, dipping his head beneath the surface. Unbothered as memories and attachments slip from his mind like sand through a sieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for disassociation, derealization, memory loss, syringe/blood drawing, minor shaving injury, and mentions of having a bad relationship with parents.
> 
> For the "pulsating organically" bit, I was imagining that one scene in Midsommar with the flower crown. Ykwim?


End file.
